


Pas de Deux

by prettysailorsoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Ballet, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Rugby, Teenlock, ballet!lock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock gets banished to the Year 13 corridor, he finds himself with a new locker neighbor: John Watson, the enigmatic captain of the rugby team who the teachers love and girls swoon at the sight of, but Sherlock isn't charmed.<br/>Not in the slightest.<br/>Honest.</p><p>Ballet!lock/Rugby!John inspired by <a href="http://shootbadcabbies.tumblr.com/">shootbadcabbies</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://shootbadcabbies.tumblr.com/post/90288641304/did-somebody-say-teen) lovely piece from the even more lovely [shootbadcabbies](http://shootbadcabbies.tumblr.com/), who has somehow managed not to strangle me yet, even after 130k without kissing

Sherlock looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, a reassuring gesture even though he had already memorized the numbers.

_221  
16, 7, 3_

He huffed, not quite enough derision left in him for another full-bodied snort. When he had said he wanted to be moved as far away from Andrew Hornigutt as possible, he hadn’t been speaking literally, but the secretary in the office had it out for him ever since he had revealed that her husband was having an affair with the barista at the local coffee shop, so she had simply clicked her red varnish and smacked her red lips and grinned at him with a poisonous promise that it would be taken care of.

Which was how Sherlock Holmes found himself walking to a locker at the very end of the Year 13 corridor in the sixth form section of the secondary school that amounted to a private wing where angels—or at least Year 11s like himself—feared to tread. Not that he was afraid, of course.

He hitched his shoulder bag up a little higher, checking the numbers again. They remained the same: Locker 221, combination 16, 7, 3. Surely it couldn’t be much further. Glancing up to his right, he watched as the odd numbers steadily climbed, focusing on the shifting digits instead of the curious eyes. Finally, he found it, and, after fumbling a bit and having to restart, flung open the black locker door, a small but present barrier between him and the whispers. It wasn’t that he cared what they said, but it did wreak havoc on one’s concentration when mutterings of your name kept pulling you out of your thoughts, and there were certainly plenty of mutterings. No more than usual, however—the typical politically incorrect slurs and jeers—and Sherlock, for the most part, put it out of his mind.

He swung his bag around to the floor in front of him, placing it over his polished shoes. Slowly, he began unloading the little he had needed to move from his old locker, taking care not to accidentally pull out the wrapped bundle as he removed his books.

“Hey,” greeted a voice from just the opposite side of his fortress wall, startling him into dropping the notebooks he had been preparing to stack inside. “Oh, shit, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“You didn’t,” Sherlock muttered, kneeling to the floor to begin gathering the books and scattered papers that had sprung loose from them.

A small chuckle drifted down to him, coming closer as the generator bent beside him on the floor. “So you just make a habit of dropping things when people say hello?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes down at his chemistry homework as he slid the sheet just inside the front cover of the blue notebook. “I find it often discourages further conversation,” he snapped, but the voice only chuckled again.

“And how’s that working out for ya?”

“At present? Not particularly…well…” Sherlock blinked, lips hovering open before he had the presence of mind to snap them shut and swallow hard, dropping his head again, because the boy kneeling down on the ground beside him, tan hands helping swipe Sherlock’s notes off the floor, was none other than John Watson. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, cheerleader-dating, straight-A-making John Watson, captain of the rugby team and of every girl’s daydreams.

Sherlock was going to tell the secretary about her husband’s previous affair with the nanny after all, he decided.

John ‘Golly gee willikers!’ Watson beamed at him, and Sherlock tried fiercely to overrule his brain’s command to his palms to start sweating. “Yeah, well, we all have off-days,” he shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Here.” He held out the pile of Sherlock’s papers—all out of order, but Sherlock wasn’t inclined to mention it. “Looks like some pretty hard stuff. What are you taking?”

“Separate Sciences,” Sherlock replied, a little softer than intended as he took the offered pages, tucking them away inside whichever notebook his hand found first, “and all the usual ones as well.”

John tilted his head, a puzzled crease forming between his brows, and then his face stretched with realization. “Oh, you’re from the lower school, yeah? Not sixth form?”

Sherlock nodded, John following as he pushed to his feet. He was not as tall as Sherlock had thought whenever he had seen him from a distance. Sherlock was actually taller, albeit only by a couple inches, but he was still growing. “Year 11,” he replied, not entirely sure why he was still indulging this conversation. He usually made his insults and then escapes by now.

John smiled again, and the decision suddenly made a lot more sense. “So, what are you doing down here with us oldies?” he asked, head bobbing back down the corridor.

“I was assigned a new locker,” Sherlock replied, fidgeting with the books in his arms.

John’s forehead wrinkled. “All the way down here?” He looked to the locker door Sherlock wanted to leap behind. “Why? Surely there’s a closer locker in the secondary school.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock muttered, shifting his feet, “it seems I may have offended the school secretary.”

John grinned. “And your penance is a half mile walk to class?” He chuckled as Sherlock shrugged. “Well, guess we’re neighbors then!” he said brightly, sticking out a hand. “John Watson, 119.”

Sherlock smiled back, not as jovial as John, but as jovial as he got. “Sherlock Holmes, 221.”

They shook hands, John’s grip firm and warm and oozing confidence. Sherlock felt his chin lift a little just coming into contact with him.

“Holmes?” John repeated, tilting his head as they parted. “Mycroft Holmes’ brother?”

Sherlock’s insides withered. “Er, yes,” he mumbled, wondering what new grudge he would bear the brunt of.

John blinked, eyes widening as he scanned Sherlock anew. “You don’t look like brothers,” he remarked. “Apart from the tall thing, I suppose, but you don’t seem like quite as much of a dick.”

Sherlock’s mouth popped open in shock while his heart heaved with elation.

“No offense,” John spluttered, lifting his hands entreatingly. “I mean- Well, of course you’ll take offense—he’s your brother—but I didn’t mean that _you_ -”

“No,” Sherlock interjected, shaking his head. “No, I don’t- Mycroft is a dick.” He nodded ardently as John continued to look shamed. “A huge, massive, gargantuan dick.”

John laughed, and Sherlock, having never been close enough to hear the sound, just barely managed not to close his eyes to savor it. “Well, alright then,” he chuckled with a playful shrug as he slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket—his rugby one, Sherlock noted. “One more thing we have in common. I’m doing sciences too,” he added at Sherlock’s tilting head. “Medicine next year at uni.”

“What specialty?” Sherlock asked, startled by both his boldness and his interest.

John shrugged again. “Dunno yet. Depends where I get in, I suppose. I’m applying all over the place. I fill out my name and address in my _dreams_ now!” He laughed, and Sherlock’s answering chuckle was surprisingly not forced. “Well, I gotta get to class. Double bio.” He grimaced, slamming his locker door before sweeping his backpack off the floor onto a shoulder, the opposite strap dangling useless down his back. “See ya around…Sherlock,” he bade, adding the name after a small pause, and then a two-finger salute and a wink the second after.

“Yeah, see you…” Sherlock murmured, likely too soft for John to hear, but the blond turned at the corner and smiled back at him anyway before disappearing toward the labs. Sherlock spun, burying his body as far into his locker as he could manage without actually climbing inside. His face burned, his heart thundered, and there was this strange buzzing in his ears that reminded him of the steady thrum of his aunt’s bees as they hummed around his suit while he tended to them. A few deep breaths later, the symptoms of cardiac arrest seemed to ebb, and he could fill his lungs to capacity without encountering a singeing pain.

Leisurely, as he did have the perfect excuse for being late to his next class, he organized his new locker, saving the small bundle at the bottom of the bag for last. With a quick glance around, he stuffed it inside. A single black ballet shoe attempted to make a break for it, tumbling out of the leotard Sherlock had wrapped them in, and he caught it with a rush of panic, balancing it back on top of the stack of notebooks before plucking out the relevant ones and closing the doors.

Staring at the closed metal for a moment, he then twisted the lock back onto the door, tugging at it just to be certain. As he made his way toward English, his mind turned unbidden to sparkling blue eyes, and he shook his head a bit to center himself. It was no use getting worked up about it. John was probably just being nice, just greeting a new face. It was unlikely they would ever speak again.

***

John talked to him every day. He was there in the morning, chatting amicably while they unloaded their books from the night before. He was there in-between some of his classes, catching Sherlock at least a couple times a day. He was there when Sherlock was packing up for the day, usually bemoaning the rugby practice he had almost every day after school.

“You ever been to a game?” he asked one afternoon out of the blue.

Sherlock snorted.

John laughed. “Yeah, I figured, but it seemed more polite to ask.” He simply smiled at Sherlock for a long moment before continuing. “You should come sometime,” he suggested, fingers shifting at something inside his pocket as he shrugged his shoulder, eyes turning away. “We still have quite a few home games left until the end of the season.”

“I-” Sherlock started to decline, and then paused. He had never been invited to anything before.

“I mean, I know it’s not really your thing,” John mumbled, scratching up the back of his neck, “but they can be fun. All kinds of jumping and shouting, and the cheerleaders are handing out cocoa now that it’s getting colder.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to bribe me with hot chocolate?”

“That depends,” John grinned, “is it working?”

Sherlock sucked his lips around a smile, attempting to pull off a mild expression as he shrugged and closed his locker door. “I’ll consider it,” he airily replied, but John’s smirk seemed to know he had already won.

***

Sherlock dragged himself down the corridor, shoulder bag impossibly heavy as he slumped under the weight.

John was waiting for him—something that had become a custom at some undetermined point in these past weeks—leaning against his locker, ankles crossed in front of him. He held a cup of Costa coffee in one hand, a mobile in the other, but he pocketed it when he caught sight of Sherlock. “You look like death warmed over,” he said mildly, slurping at the brew.

Sherlock sneered, his brain too slow to even summon a retort. It took him three tries to get the combination right on his locker.

“Rough night?” John asked, his voice strangely stilted.

Sherlock shook his head. “ _Long_ night,” he clarified.

“Homework?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment and then nodded. It was homework, of a sort. Homework for Scotland Yard, but, regardless. He hadn’t gotten around to telling John about his extracurricular activities yet. He wasn’t even sure why it felt important to tell him at all, but it did, and the half-lie wriggled in his throat a bit as it came out. “Yeah. Big test on Wednesday.”

John hummed thoughtfully from where he now leaned on Sherlock’s left, and then pushed up, thrusting his coffee under Sherlock’s nose. “Here,” he said, the cup shifting slightly as he shrugged. “You need this more than I do.”

Sherlock’s hand lifted on instinct, and then John was gone, leaving Sherlock holding the base of a red paper cup and staring after him with no idea how to untangle the knots in his stomach.

The next day, John brought two coffees. The day after, Sherlock went in a little earlier so John wouldn’t be waiting. The day after that, John finally got around to asking him how he liked his coffee.

“The way you do it is fine,” he murmured over the lip as he sucked through the white plastic lid.

John snorted. “Liar,” he muttered, and brought in a double shot nonfat caramel macchiato the following morning for revenge.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock spluttered in disgust as he took the first sip, dared on by John’s smirk and dancing eyes. “Oh- Oh _god_! Okay, fine! Black with two sugars,” he snapped over John’s raucous laughter. “Now take this thing back to the pits of hell where it belongs!”

“Alright, alright,” John chuckled, grabbing the cup from Sherlock and promptly binning it. He walked back, reaching into his locker and pulling out another cup, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Only one sugar, I’m afraid,” he shrugged, passing it across to Sherlock rather precariously by the lid, “but it’s black this time.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You bought three drinks just for the sake of that joke?”

John grinned, eyes dropping as he sipped at his own coffee. “I would’ve bought the whole damn Costa just to see that look on your fa- Oi, hot coffee here!” he cried as Sherlock pushed his locker door back into the blond’s arm.

***

Sherlock tried to be quiet as he crept through the front door, not wanting to have to talk to Mycroft about where he was sure his brother already knew he had been.

Lestrade had shown up during Health Education—the designated time Sherlock had just shy of begged him to interrupt—and taken him away for the rest of the day, inspiring the usual amount of stolen glances and whispered suspicions. Lestrade had expressed—not for the first or last time—about how they could be more discreet, that they could wait until lunch or after school so as not to make Sherlock such a target. Usually, Sherlock just scoffed, but, this time, he had replied.

“To be perfectly honest, Lestrade, I really don’t give a flying fuck what they think,” he had muttered on the way to the station, borrowing a phrase from John, and Lestrade had nearly driven off the bridge, he was laughing so hard.

Sherlock started down the hall, sticking to the sections of the old manor floors that didn’t squeak, but it was a lost cause from the start.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called, as if Sherlock wouldn’t be lying dead on the rug right now if he hadn’t already known it was him.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, but didn’t bother replying as Mycroft’s footsteps were already approaching.

“Finally,” the elder Holmes snapped, glaring down with the height he still had on Sherlock, a constant source of resentment for the latter. “Your mobile has been _beeping_ for hours,” he sneered, as if such technology and its simple ways were beneath him. “You really should remember to take it with you.”

“Who was it?” Sherlock asked, moving toward the stairs.

“How should I know?” Mycroft replied tiredly, waving a hand up at the already ascending Sherlock. “I don’t read through your messages.”

“No,” Sherlock said tonelessly, “because that would be an invasion of my privacy.”

Just before the foyer vanished, Mycroft shot up a sharp glare, but there was a hint of humor around his mouth all the same.

Sherlock dashed to his room, plucking his mobile off the side table and collapsing backward onto his bed, the mattress bouncing as he tapped at the phone held aloft over his face.

_5 Missed Calls  
11 New Messages_

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He barely had time to begin clicking toward the inbox when the phone rang again, an unknown number flashing up on the screen. Warily, Sherlock answered. “Hello?”

“Sherlock!?”

Sherlock blinked. And again. And once more for good measure. He then shot bolt upright. “John?”

There was a loud bluster of air from the other end of the line. “Jesus! What the hell, Sherlock!? Where have you _been_?”

“How-How did you get my number?” Sherlock stammered, eyes darting aimlessly around his room.

“How did I get your- Right, fuck this, are you home? I’m nearly there. Just round the corner on that holly something or other street.”

“Holleridge Lane,” Sherlock instinctively corrected. “Wait, why are you-”

“Just answer the door in two minutes,” John interrupted with a snarl, and then the line was beeping at him, dead.

Sherlock lowered the phone in front of him, staring at it, but even the phone seemed to shrug its ignorance. In a daze that was gradually growing more and more apprehensive, Sherlock made his way downstairs, pausing briefly at the study door. “Er-” was his grand arrival announcement.

Mycroft looked up, more alarmed than irritated, it appeared, and Sherlock realized it had been years since he had interrupted Mycroft in his study, since he had needed to, wanted to. “Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, rising from his chair and coming around the desk. “Is everything alright?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, of course,” he snapped, getting a grip on himself. “I just wanted to let you know that someone is going to be arriving here in a few minutes.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “Alright,” his brother replied. “And who is your mystery guest, if I may ask?”

Sherlock bristled, crossing his arms. “A friend.”

Mycroft looked as though he might faint, his feet actually shifting back on the imported rug. “I- I didn’t- You never-“

The doorbell rang. And rang. And then there was a pounding on the wood.

Sherlock darted away from his brother’s stunned expression, seizing his momentary advantage, and threw open the front door to a blur of John Watson that blazed past him.

“Where the _hell_ were you!?” the blond dove in, arms crossed, and Sherlock would swear he had gotten taller since he’d seen him that morning. Or perhaps Sherlock was just shrinking. “You’re not at lunch, I don’t hear a _thing_ from you, and then I find out from _Seb Wilkes_ , of all people, that the _police_ pulled you out of class!? Jesus, Sherlock, what did you do!?”

For a moment, Sherlock could do nothing but stare, mouth gaping. “I- Nothing,” he breathed, shaking his head. “I-I didn’t do anything. Lestrade-”

“Lestrade?” John broke in, still furious, but evidently also a little curious now.

Sherlock nodded. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. He works with Scotland Yard.”

John’s arms untangled, dropping slowly to his sides as his brow furrowed, but he appeared content to listen and made no move to interrupt.

“I- Well, I’m sort of...”—he bobbed his head from side to side—“a consulting detective. That’s what I call it anyway,” he shrugged, and John’s eyebrow lifted. “I notice things, all kinds of things, things ordinary people miss,” he explained, John’s posture loosening with every word, “and then, using deductive reasoning, I can figure things out.”

“What kind of things?” John asked, only a hint of accusation still residing in his tone.

Sherlock hesitated, and then figured he might as well. “For the Yard, I predominantly solve murders”—John’s eyes widened—“but there’s the odd kidnapping or blackmail case. They call me, give me the files, show me the suspects, etc., and then I solve it.”

John’s eyebrow was nearly hidden by his hair. “You…solve it?” he repeated. “Just like that?”

“Well, no,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes, “it takes a bit of time. But, yes, I solve it. I haven’t yet managed not to, at any rate.”

John stared at him, the grandfather clock behind him the only sound in the foyer. “You solve murders. For Scotland Yard,” he said, tone measured.

Sherlock nodded, and John looked at him another long moment.

Then, quite suddenly, he nodded. “Alright,” he clipped, arms fanning out before his palms slapped against the sides of his thighs. “Consulting detective. Good to know.”

Sherlock remained silent, waiting for the inevitable nervous breakdown. His stomach sank as John’s eyes turned on him again, creased and curious.

“What- What sort of stuff do you do? Exactly?”

Sherlock stood resolutely still, hoping this dream wasn’t about to shatter around him. “I can show you, if you like,” he offered, a single shoulder shrugging. “Lestrade gave me a new case this afternoon.”

“Yeah, I- Yeah, okay,” John said, licking at his lips in a nervous habit as he nodded. “That sounds- That sounds good.”

Sherlock dared to smile, just a small one as he nodded and began leading the way back toward the stairs. A tall silhouette marred a doorway up ahead, and Sherlock bit back a sigh as he rolled his eyes. “John, this is Mycroft, my brother. You may remember him from school.”

Mycroft emerged out of the shadows, the light slowly creeping up his body. It was meant to be intimidating, that much was clear, which was why Sherlock was surprised to feel light pressure on his arm, moving him aside.

“I remember, but I don’t think we ever properly met. John Watson,” the blond said, smile winsome as ever as he extended a hand, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Of course _he_ gets yelled at while _Mycroft_ gets smiles.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, but took the offered palm. “Mycroft Holmes,” he replied. “Pleasure to meet you. Although, I must admit, Sherlock hasn’t told me anything about you.”

John chuckled, dropping a smile to the floor. “Probably for the best. He wouldn’t do me justice.”

Sherlock snorted, John turned to beam at him, and then Sherlock rolled his eyes and head away, but not before catching the shock on Mycroft’s face. “We’ll be upstairs,” Sherlock informed over his shoulder as he turned away, starting up the steps.

“It was nice to meet you,” John said behind him politely, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the empty corridor in front of him as the shorter boy’s footsteps hurried up to his.

“It was nice to meet you,” Sherlock mocked, bobbing his head as his voice turned shrill. “I thought you said he was a dick.”

“Shh!” John hissed. “He _is_ a dick, but I’d rather not talk about it in _your house_.”

Sherlock huffed, not really seeing the point in such pleasantries, but the comment had brought up other questions, so he allowed the conversation to move on. “How did you know where I lived?” he asked, trying to sound as offhanded as possible.

“Directory,” John replied. “The mobile number I got off Molly. Nice girl. Fancies you a bit, I think.”

Sherlock barked a hard laugh, stepping onto the landing and careening right down the corridor.

“Just sayin’. She seemed _awfully_ curious about why I-” He stopped, and so did his footsteps, and Sherlock had just enough time to realize why before the voice came again, soft and questioning. “Sherlock?”

He turned, fear thick in his throat, and he fought to swallow it down as he watched John lean in toward a picture hanging on the wall.

“Is this- Is this you?” He pointed unnecessarily, turning to Sherlock with an inquisitive frown, and Sherlock memorized it, knowing he was never going to be this close to John again.

It hurt more than he’d expected.

“I- Er- Yes,” he settled on, because there was nothing for it but acceptance now.

“You-” John paused, taking in another breath as his forehead furrowed further at the picture, as if he might still be wrong about the content. “You do ballet?”

There were 13 possible exit routes from where he currently stood, seven of which avoided passing John again entirely.

“Yes,” he answered. He shifted restlessly on his feet in the long silence that followed, hands twisting in front of him. John wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t let Sherlock read what he knew would be on his face, so Sherlock rushed forward with a broken breath. “I’m sorry, I- I should’ve told you, I just- I didn’t know what you’d think, and- Well, actually, I knew _exactly_ what you’d think, but I didn’t _want_ you to, so-”

“Woah, Sherlock, slow down,” John urged, hands lifting toward him in a soothing gesture. “What are you talking about? What would I think?”

“That I’m gay,” Sherlock blurted, tongue loose with terror.

John blinked, head jolting back in surprise.

It was probably silent to anyone else, but all Sherlock could hear was the thundering of his heart.

“Are you?” John asked, careful, soft, the option not to answer written clearly in the worried crease of his brow.

Sherlock swallowed hard, because they were here now, weren’t they? It had always been nothing but a matter of time.

Goodbye, John.

“Yes,” he practically squeaked, and then swallowed to moisten his drying mouth. “But it’s not- I’m not- I don’t like you. That way. I’m not… _attracted_ to you.”

Sherlock had once wept uncontrollably in front of a priest to gain access to a funeral to see the reactions on the mourners’ faces, and yet this was the worst lie he had ever told. He felt sick, bile rising hot and acrid, and he watched with rapt attention as something flitted across John’s face, almost like- No.

John huffed a small laugh, a swallow moving down his throat as he dropped his face to the floor. “Right, well that- that’s-” He sighed, licking his lips and looking back up at the picture. “ _The Nutcracker_ , right?” he asked, never removing his eyes from the glass.

Sherlock hovered, uncertain and still so very afraid. “Yeah,” he answered warily. “We put it on every year at Christmas.”

“That explains the limp,” John said, smile genuine, but still somehow a little sad as he turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s throat clicked as his mouth moved, undecided which sentence it wanted to produce. “I- You didn’t say anything.”

“Neither did you,” John shrugged. “I figured you’d tell me if it was important.” There was something odd in his voice, the same strange thing that resided in his eyes as he looked back at the picture. It was small and distant, stifled beyond Sherlock’s power to definitively interpret, but it looked a little like longing, the kind of longing that only comes after a loss. “So,” he continued in a great breath, and the tableau broke as he turned and smiled, “guess you’ll be performing it again soon, then.”

“Er, yes,” Sherlock murmured, never having spoken about his dancing so casually with anyone since his mother died the year before, the New Year’s after that picture was taken. “Mrs. Hudson is working us very hard.”

“Mrs. Hudson?” John asked, head tilting.

Sherlock nodded. “My teacher. Tutor? I forget which one she prefers.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “So, is she just your teacher, or is she, er, running the whole production?”

Sherlock smiled in spite of the lingering dread in his chest, endeared to John’s stumbling over the jargon. “She runs a dance studio, and is spearheading this production, so she’s involved with all the dancers as far as their role in this performance is concerned, but she is also my private teacher. I, er- Well, the group classes didn’t exactly…work out.”

John chuckled, the light notes of it brushing away all of Sherlock’s lingering anxieties. “No? Why ever not?”

Sherlock smiled, shaking his head as he looked away from blue eyes. “I imagine you could hazard a guess.”

“You were too good and they all got jealous?”

The supposition surprised Sherlock, and he blinked rapidly back at John’s gaze, navy in the dim light.

John smiled, a fragile, fond thing. “Figured,” he mumbled, flicking a glance back at the picture, “but you were probably a bit of a cock too.”

Sherlock was startled into a laugh. “I believe that was inferred to me once or twice, yes,” he replied, and John chuckled.

Their laughter dwindled, however, leaving them standing in silence, Sherlock staring at John while John stared at the picture.

“I’d like to go,” the blond said abruptly, eyes turning to Sherlock in the pause. “If I could.”

The world actually tilted under him; it must have done. “I- Um- You can,” he murmured very smoothly. “If you…want.”

John tilted his head, smiling as if Sherlock had missed something obvious. “When does it start?”

“The week before Christmas. Friday the 20th through Friday the 27th. Two shows Saturday and Sunday, and then one every night all the other days.”

“Every night?” John repeated, eyebrows lifting. “Even Christmas? Christmas Eve?”

Sherlock nodded. “We don’t usually do anything those days, but we thought- We thought it would be good for profits.”

It wasn’t true, but he’d already dropped one bombshell today. The ‘my mother was a huge fan and benefactor of the studio and everyone wanted to do something special to commemorate the anniversary of her death, so the proceeds from those two nights will be going to Cancer Research UK’ discussion would just have to wait for some other time.

“Probably,” John replied with a half-shrug. “It is a Christmas show; I bet loads of people would wanna see it on Christmas.”

Sherlock nodded. “That is the hope.”

John smiled, glance moving away before he looked back, now with a spark of mischief. “You know,” he drawled, and Sherlock’s eyes twitched narrow, “if I’m going to go to one of your shows, it only seems fair you come to one of my games.”

“I didn’t ask you to come to the show,” Sherlock snapped, but John wasn’t letting him away with it, and just continued smiling.

“Fair enough,” he obliged. “What if I said I wanted you to come to one of them? We only have the one home game left.”

All of Sherlock’s internal organs were pressed together in a vice in his chest. “Um, I- Well, I suppose- When?” He only squeaked a little, clearing his throat to make up for it.

John’s lips twitched, but he made no comment on it. “Friday. 6 o’clock. You know where the field is?”

Sherlock snorted. “Do I know where the _giant_ field of our school’s _prized sport_ is? Yes, John, I am not quite that obtuse.”

“Hey, you’ve never seen a game,” John countered, shrugging his hands up to his shoulders. “For all I know, you think we play on horses.”

Sherlock blinked, frowning. “That’s polo, right?”

John’s mouth dropped open comically. A second later, he was in peals of laughter. “Oh my god! Oh my _god_ , you actually don’t know, do you?”

“It’s polo,” Sherlock said with a firm nod, turning away and continuing on the path to his room.

“But you weren’t _sure_ ,” John goaded as he trailed behind.

“I was testing you,” Sherlock muttered, and John laughed even louder.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he sighed, his shaking head audible in the shifting timbre of his voice, “you’re always testing me.”

Sherlock had no reply.

***

He had regretted this decision exactly 27 times since leaving his house. Mycroft had accounted for about half of them, giving Sherlock odder and odder looks as he drove him back to the school, but the rest was just pure and simple self-doubt.

What if John didn’t want him to come after all? What if he was just being nice? What if he’s only been being nice all these months? What if the other guys on the team mocked him? What if _John_ mocked him? What if this was all just some elaborate scheme for them to strip him naked and tie him to the goal post? Did rugby have goal posts?

Sherlock rattled his head, taking a deep breath as he weaved his way underneath the stands. The metal seats and supports cast crosshatched shadows over him as he crept along, the sun making a rare and probably brief appearance as the game neared its start time. A flash of gold in his peripheral vision drew his attention, a familiar head of hair caught in one of the patches of sun, and Sherlock had a wildly romantic moment of imagining it had peeked through the clouds in that spot just to shine upon John Watson, who was now rushing toward him, striped blue shirt and dark shorts flowing around his body as he ran. Sherlock swallowed thickly, hitching a smile as the boy drew up.

“You made it!” he said, breathless with excitement, it seemed, rather than exertion.

“We had a deal,” Sherlock answered with a nod, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Half of John’s mouth twitched up, a blush gracing along his cheeks as he ducked his head and tugged at his collar. “I wasn’t serious. I would’ve gone to your show either way. You-You really don’t have to stay.”

“No, it’s…fine,” Sherlock murmured, the words drifting away into the roar of the crowd as the mascot took the field, a signal that the glorious festivities were about to begin.

“That’s my cue!” John chirped, nerves edging in around the syllables. “You’ll be here? At the end?”

Sherlock couldn’t have said no to that face if he’d wanted to. He nodded.

John beamed, and Sherlock knew he would sit gladly through the next two hours just to have earned that smile.

Of course, as it turned out, rugby wasn’t the most boring thing in the world to watch. Or, rather, John playing rugby wasn’t the boring thing in the world to watch. John being captain of the rugby team. John yelling out orders and talking animatedly with referees and the way his calf muscles flexed in the socks and his shirt sometimes flew up a little when he ran and god Sherlock needed to lie down.

It was a long two hours, and Sherlock was nearly shaking by the end of it, trying hopelessly to get a grip on himself before he had to stand near John. They were friends! Friends who, honestly, had hardly ever done anything beyond talk before school, between classes, and after school for a bit at their lockers. They’d never gone anywhere, save Tuesday when John had barged in, and, okay, there had been lunch this past Wednesday, but that had only been because John was curious about the case Sherlock had told him about the day before at his house. They didn’t ‘hang out’, they didn’t text. It wasn’t even an option until Tuesday, when John had gotten his mobile number. They weren’t close, they never would be close, and, besides, John was…John. He was out there right now, sweaty and dirt-streaked, and Sherlock had left ballet practice a little early so he could make it for the game. They weren’t just apples and oranges, they were oil and water. They could never mix.

Of course, all his lovely resolve positively crumbled when John came bounding up to him after, finding Sherlock among the stragglers that had stayed through the handshakes and post-game huddles. He was panting, still flushed from thrill and exertion, and his hair alternately stuck to his forehead and pointed straight up. The scent of dirt and grass carried on the wind away from him, mingling with a saltiness that was most assuredly just John, and Sherlock imagined it was something like standing on the shore, especially with the ozone hovering around them in what would likely be the last few pre-rain minutes.

“So,” John panted, smile wide and eyes wild, “whadya think?”

Sherlock tilted his head.

John rolled his eyes. “The _game_ ,” he stressed, waving a hand back at the field. “What did you think?”

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered, looking out onto the empty field, a completely unbidden memory of a flash of John’s torso snaking into his mind. He coughed. “It was…more entertaining than I expected.” He heroically managed not to wince.

“That’s hardly a compliment,” John chuckled, “considering you were expecting to literally die of boredom.”

“Well, maybe not die,” Sherlock murmured. “Will myself into a coma, perhaps.”

John laughed, but stopped suddenly as a shout came from behind them.

“Oi, Watson!” called a large boy, a Year 12 who was on the team with John. “We’re gonna hit the pub! You comin’?” he asked as he drew near, a small gaggle of other boys following him.

“Naw, not tonight,” John said, throwing an odd glance up at Sherlock that, thankfully, no one else caught. “I’ll see you guys at practice tomorrow, so don’t overdo it!”

“Yeah, yeah,” the large boy jeered, rolling his eyes, which then settled on Sherlock. His expression sank into a glower. “What are you looking at, freak?” he spat. “Didn’t get enough of your little _thrills_ watching us from the sidelines? Why don’t you just go back to your twirling and tights? They shouldn’t even let faggots into these things, I tell ya.” Who he was trying to tell was unclear, but the boys behind him let out stunted chortles, which were immediately bit off as John stepped forward.

“I don’t know, Ryan,” John said, innocent enough, but there was an undercurrent of ice in his tone that rendered the group silent, “seems like twirling and tights is a lot less gay than a sport where a dozen sweaty men in shorts pile on top of one another.”

Sherlock wanted a photograph of this moment blown up and framed on his wall. No, a photo wouldn’t do it justice. He wanted to commission a portrait of Ryan and company’s slack-jawed faces, an oil painting of shock and befuddlement that would hang over the fireplace for generations to come. Did they have a fireplace? He would commission a fireplace and a portrait.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John beckoned, turning away and heading up the path toward the main school building, “we’re gonna be late.”

They had no plans, nowhere to be, but Sherlock dutifully followed, the whole world seeming lighter for the glow in his chest.

They ended up in John’s car, a small, green something or other John told him the name of and he had since forgotten. John picked the music, going on and on about The Cure and The Kooks and a few other ‘The’s that Sherlock had never heard of, which was apparently grounds for his citizenship to be revoked. “The Cure, though? Seriously?” John had asked about a half dozen times, and Sherlock had eventually only replied with a scowl, turning his head to watch the yellow streetlamps roll past.

John’s apartment was small, two floors with two bedrooms, neither of which were his.

“Harry’s 16 now,” John explained with a shrug as they ascended the rickety pull-down stairs to the attic. “She needed her own space. Although, she spends more time at Clara’s than here nowadays. Mum’s room is down there,” he said, waving a hand down the end of the corridor before the hall below disappeared from view.

John was making due in the attic, a bed that looked more like a hotel cot than anything else shoved into the corner beside a dresser and a small desk, all of it surrounded by boxes and dusty Christmas decorations. There was an attempt at making it livable, however, with posters hanging on the walls, books piled next to the bed, and a small television and DVD player balanced atop two stacked cardboard boxes at the foot of the bed.

“Home sweet home,” John said, his neck flushing. “I know it’s not much,” he muttered, ruffling his hair, “but it’s quiet and private, and I don’t get pulled into mum and Harry’s fights anymore.”

Sherlock wondered if he was supposed to ask, if that was what had been implied by John mentioning it at all, but he didn’t, already knowing what ills the Watson house held.

Mrs. Watson: divorced, alcoholic, can’t hold down a job due to her drunkenness. Rehab brochure stuck into the mail on the kitchen table was likely John’s work, trying to get her to quit, not knowing how.

Harry (Harriet? Probably.) Watson: lesbian, burgeoning alcoholic, involved in numerous infidelities due to alcohol, girlfriend (likely Clara) doesn’t yet know. She liked cats, was allergic to strawberries, and wasn’t intending to go to uni.

All Sherlock said, however, was “Ah.”

John smiled like he knew anyway. “So,” he said, clapping his hands together, “whadya wanna do? Don’t have much, I’m afraid—this thing doesn’t get cable—but there’s always movies. I have the James Bond Box Set! _Doctor No_ to _Quantum of Solace_ all wrapped up together.” He beamed like this was supposed to mean something, and then slowly frowned. “You have seen a James Bond movie, right?”

Anyone else, Sherlock would have scoffed and lied, but John would ask probing questions, and then he’d be double caught. “Er…” he murmured, and didn’t get any further.

“You haven’t seen a- Okay, no, this cannot go on. The Cure, and now _this_!?” He shook his head, heavy with disappointment, like Sherlock had just betrayed some great confidence John had placed in him. “Marathon. Now. We probably won’t get through more than a couple tonight, but I think we can knock ‘em out before New Year’s. You want a drink?” he asked, and Sherlock took a moment to process that wealth of information before answering, voice a bit distant.

John wanted to spend… _time_ with him? Over break? Outside of school?

“Er, yeah,” he mumbled, then swallowed and straightened his spine.

“Whadya want?” John asked, legs disappearing beneath the horizon of the floorboards. “Water, Coke? I think we have orange juice. Apple juice? Some kind of juice.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” Sherlock said, shifting nervously. What did one _do_ left alone in another person’s living quarters?

John smiled impishly, tilting his head in that way that made Sherlock feel eight years old again. “Well, _I’m_ probably gonna have a cider, but you-”

“Cider’s fine,” Sherlock interjected. He’d never had it, but he wasn’t about to say as much, not wanting to muck up the first time he’d ever been invited to drink socially with anyone.

Once again, however, John seemed to know, and his smile broadened. “Sherlock, you’re only 15.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he folded his arms. “Hardly. I’ll be 16 in January.”

“So you’re 15 and five-sixths?” His eyes glittered, and Sherlock’s snapped to slits. “Fine,” he chuckled, lifting his hands as he shook his head, “but only one. I’m not holding any hair back tonight.”

“My hair’s not that long,” Sherlock muttered, tugging self-consciously at a curl, which sprung back into a coil as his fingers released it, “and I _can_ hold my liquor, you know.”

John only laughed, which, as it turned out, was exactly the right reaction.

“Jesus,” John chuckled halfway through _From Russia With Love_. “Two ciders and you’re completely rat-arsed!”

“’M not,” Sherlock mumbled, head heavy where it rested on the edge of John’s bed, his limbs long-since sunk off the end to the floor. “You’re- Your arse- Hmm?”

John laughed, mouth near Sherlock’s ear as he was stretched out lengthwise down his bed, head pillowed on his folded arms. “You are such a lightweight,” he muttered, though not unkind. “What’s your brother going to say? Me bringing you home in this state?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, head lolling in exaggerated shaking. “He’s not there. Business. Something with... I dunno.” He shook his head some more. “Government… _things_. It was a lot of words. Might’ve been about France.”

John’s answering nod shifted the mattress next to Sherlock’s head. “Maybe you should just stay here then,” he said, voice soft in the inches between them. “Harry’s at Clara’s for the weekend, and Mum is- Well, she doesn’t generally come home Fridays.”

Sherlock rolled his head toward John, but he was too far back on the mattress, only his elbows visible unless Sherlock craned his neck, which was far too much work at the moment. “Okay,” he answered, because he was rather a mess, and the idea of more time with John warmed him in a way he couldn’t think too deeply about at the moment. His first proper sleepover with his first proper friend, movie marathons and everything. Maybe later they’d throw popcorn at one another, make a real American high school movie out of it. He giggled at the thought.

“What?” John asked, bed shifting as his weight did.

“Nothin’” Sherlock murmured, sleepy smile spreading over his warm face. “Never had one before.”

“Never had what? A cider? Because I’d guessed that much, believe it or not.”

“No,” Sherlock breathed, and it really was so much nicer in the dark behind his eyelids. “A friend.”

John’s small intake of breath was the last sound Sherlock was aware of, and he probably imagined the soft pressure of fingers in his hair.

***

Little things changed after that; nothing significant, nothing Sherlock could definitively point to and say ‘From here, everything was different’, but it happened somewhere along the line regardless.

Maybe it was in the text messages that started coming in, the ‘Hey whats up?’ and ‘Ooo tobacco ash. Fascinating ;)’ that arrived at all hours of the night, prompting more than one irritated shout from Mycroft up the stairs.

Maybe it was the lunches that were now perpetually spent in John’s company, as he had infiltrated their group at some point without Sherlock noticing, making great friends with Mike, who had similar ambitions to go into medicine.

Maybe it was the study sessions in Sherlock’s room, the both amused and exasperated mutterings from John about how Sherlock couldn’t possibly be better than him at this, he was two years older, for chrissake.

Maybe it was the fact that John was now actively helping him on cases, flipping through files and sticking up post-its and pretending to be corpses when Sherlock required.

Whatever the reason, as the season of giving snuck up and over them with a vengeance and an empty wallet, and the minds of Year 13s tended toward uni as the outcome of applications began to trickle into their mailboxes, Sherlock realized that he had miscalculated his attachment to John Watson. It was not in his nature to make people important, let alone indispensable, but it had happened, snuck under his skin in a way he couldn’t now hope to dig out.

It started innocently enough, a conversation about what would happen after John graduated, something that already make Sherlock a little queasy, but then he had to drop the ‘a’ word.

“You want to join the _army_!?”

John froze, puzzled, pad thai hanging off the chopsticks raised halfway to his mouth.

They were sitting on the floor of Sherlock’s room, celebrating school breaking up for half term with greasy noodles and forgotten edamame. John had wanted him to eat something better, considering it was the night before his first show, but Sherlock had only laughed, saying he ate rarely enough that he would have what he wanted when he felt like it. No one was laughing now.

“Well, no, not exclusively,” John said, lowering the wooden prongs back into his carton, apparently giving up on food for the time being. “But if I don’t get an interview anywhere-”

“Of course you’ll get an interview,” Sherlock blustered, because 1) John was brilliant, and 2) He was absolutely not going to be joining the army.

John blushed, pushing at his noodles. “Well, okay, but if I don’t-”

“Then you’ll do something else. Bartend! Everybody bartends nowadays. Tips and-and- I don’t know, tips!”

John smiled, chuckling softly, but there was something pitying in his eyes. “You know I don’t want to do that, Sherlock. Just get by, make ends meet.”

Sherlock was regretting the decision to eat, the damn chicken pad thai betraying him as his stomach roiled.

“I want to help people. I want to make a difference.”

“Bartenders make a difference.”

John huffed. “Rarely a positive one. My mum’s liver can attest to that.”

An awkward pall. A cleared throat.

“Look, it’s not my first choice, okay?” John entreated, setting his food down in front of his crossed legs as he leaned forward. “I’m just saying, if nothing else comes through-”

“You can’t join the army.” His hands were shaking.

John tilted his head, sighing heavily. “Sherlock-”

“No, you can’t!” Sherlock bleated, leaping up, his food barely managing not to spill as he hastily sat it down in front of him, but he needed to get up, needed to move, needed to walk, to _run_ away from this conversation that could not possibly be happening. “You can’t, John, you can’t! What if something happened to you? What am I saying, of course something’s going to happen to you, it’s _war_!”

“Not all the time,” John soothed, rising. He reached a hand toward Sherlock, but the detective darted away, pacing in an anxious frenzy. “It’s mostly just training. Boring stuff. I’ll probably do nothing but play Ping-Pong for four years.” He smiled.

Sherlock didn’t. “This isn’t a joke, John!” he spat, because, for being brilliant, his friend was being a moron. “What if you get sent to Afghanistan? Or Iraq? What if World War III breaks out with Russia and you’re right in the middle of it, freezing to death in a gulag somewhere!?”

“A gulag?” John repeated, eyebrow rising, and Sherlock had never been so angry at a curl of wiry hair.

“Dammit, John, this is _important_!” he exploded, hands flying, and the blond staggered back to allow his rage more room. “You could die, don’t you understand that? You could _die_ , and you can’t die, John, you can’t! You can’t leave me!”

John’s eyes widened.

Sherlock’s breath hitched.

“Sherlock-”

“Don’t.”

“Sherlock-” he tried again, hand outstretching toward Sherlock’s arm as he stepped forward.

“I said don’t!” Sherlock snapped, and John let his hands fall back, reluctance evident in his eyes. Something hot and bitter rose in his throat, and he dropped his head, screwing his lids tight against the onslaught of tears. There was nothing he could do about his voice, however, and it was wrecked when the words he hadn’t meant to say came out. “Don’t you care?”

John’s single breath stretched out in the stillness between them. “Of course I care,” he said softly, hand twitching up, then back down. “You know I care. I just- God, Sherlock, I don’t know.” He grated out a frustrated sigh, turning and running his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to do. I-I don’t think I have the money for school, even if I do get in,” he finally admitted, even though Sherlock had known that had been worrying him since he’d sent in the applications. “The army is just… It makes sense. For me.”

“I’ll give you the money,” Sherlock offered, and John breathed a faint chuckle.

He shook his head. “You know I wouldn’t take it,” he said, and Sherlock’s chest burned again.

“No, because that would wound your _pride_ ,” Sherlock snarled, a little spittle maybe even flying as he clenched his fists at his sides. “You’ll go charging off into the desert for queen and country without a second thought, but you won’t take a measly loan from me because it feels like _charity_.”

“It _is_ charity, Sherlock,” John replied, voice hard as his eyes flashed, Sherlock finally having exhausted his patience.

“No, it’s not!” Sherlock entreated, but John only crossed his arms. “It’s not charity; I’m not doing it for you.”

“What, you trying out the philanthropist thing now?”

“No, I’m trying out the not wanting you to _die_ thing now, so will you please just-”

“I’m not going to die, Sherlock.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

“Why are you being so stubborn about this!?”

“Why are _you_?”

“Because I love you, you idiot!”

John staggered back, mouth open, eyes blinking. “What?” he wheezed.

Sherlock wondered if some of that unused portion of the human brain could be channeled into time travel or mind control so he could go back and make sure that never happened, or at least make John think it never did. A few beats of silence without any mystical intervention, however, and Sherlock opened his mouth, a staggered blend of useless sounds and words intermingling in guttural tones.

“What did you just say?” John asked, but it was a bit closer to a demand, Captain Watson voice in full form.

“I-I didn’t-” Sherlock breathed, every syllable taking a gargantuan effort as the air grated up his throat.

“What?” John urged, taking a step forward. “You didn’t what? You didn’t mean it?”

Sherlock couldn’t read his face, the expressions were moving too fast. Fear, hope, disappointment, sadness, frustration, confusion, it all melded together into something he couldn’t even begin to guess at, leaving him with no idea how to reply. If he got it wrong, if he ruined everything…

“I-I don’t know,” he said softly, shaking his head as he hung it. “I don’t know.” The tears were nearly impossible to push back now, but he managed, likely only due to John’s cracked sigh pulling his attention away from his internal self-berating.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said, but his voice was all wrong, too thin, too brittle, and the smile followed suit. “I understand. We can just…forget it ever happened.”

Having never been stabbed, Sherlock couldn’t say for certain whether this feeling was akin to it, but he imagined it was the only suitable comparison for the pain surging through his chest. “Oh,” he mused, his voice far away from his own, humming ears.

John smiled, a quick, false twitch. “Pretty silly, actually. If you think about it,” he breathed with a weak chuckle. “You and me. Never work, would it?”

Sherlock blinked, dazed with hurt and betrayal and self-loathing and a million other things he couldn’t name. “No,” he agreed, because it seemed the only thing to do. “No, I-I suppose it wouldn’t.”

John’s face seemed to more crack than smile, and he bowed his head, taking a step backward. “I should go,” he murmured, clearing his throat as he jerked a thumb at Sherlock’s door. He gathered his backpack from the floor. “Let you get some sleep. I don’t want to be responsible for you dropping Irene again,” he added, referring to the girl playing Clara alongside Sherlock’s Prince.

“I didn’t drop her the first time,” Sherlock retorted, and it was supposed to be easy, the simple banter they had been doing all along, but it was stilted now, the smiles tremulous.

“Right,” John valiantly attempted to tease anyway, fiddling at the strap of his bag. “Well, I’ll, er- I’ll see ya.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock replied with a stunted nod. “See ya.”

John smiled, bowing his head briefly in goodbye before spinning around and disappearing through the door.

Sherlock listened to every footstep on the stairs, closing his eyes to increase his focus as they got more distant. He heard John’s mumbled goodbyes to Mycroft, a politeness he insisted on maintaining no matter how many times he came over. He heard John’s car rumble to life in the drive, the gravel shifting roughly under his tires as his headlamps passed Sherlock’s shadow in a half-circle around the room, and then the roar gradually faded, thinning until Sherlock was left with nothing but half-empty Thai containers and an ache in his gut that had nothing to do with hunger.

***

“A watched pot.”

Sherlock looked up from his shoes as he tested the laces, twisting on the ground to crane back and look at Mrs. Hudson. “Hmm?”

The old woman smiled, arms folded over her torso as she stood behind him, a pale pink sweater hanging off her shoulders over her black leotard. She nodded down toward the mobile next to Sherlock’s feet, easily within his sightline as he fiddled with his shoes. “A watched pot,” she repeated. “It never boils.”

Sherlock smiled weakly back, his eyes drifting back to stare at the screen in spite of himself.

“What’s his name?” Mrs. Hudson said, the trainers she had changed into after their warmup coming into view beside him.

“Who?” Sherlock attempted to prevaricate, but his voice broke a little, and he cringed at the tell.

“The boy who’s got you staring at that phone like a weeping angel,” Mrs. Hudson replied, and Sherlock whipped around to look up at her, surprised. “What?” she snipped, lifting her chin. “I watch TV. And I’m no stranger to the times, my boy, nor to you, so why don’t you just save us both a lot of trouble and tell me?”

Sherlock faltered for a moment, gaze flickering to the floor, but he had known Mrs. Hudson for years, even since before his father had died. She had been with him at the funeral, assuring him it wasn’t his fault—which he had known, of course, deep down—but there was still a part of him that wondered if the old man’s shame at having his son decide to take ballet over football had wasted him away that little bit quicker. If he couldn’t tell _her_ …

“John,” he said, and, completely illogically, it hurt just saying the name. “I- He-” He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

With it being break, they hadn’t seen one another since that night, _the_ night, the only night that would live forever in Sherlock’s mind when he didn’t actively encage it. John, too good to go back to ignoring Sherlock like he probably wanted to, text him every day before a performance, just a quick ‘Good luck’ to which Sherlock replied ‘Thank you’. He never forgot one, not a single one, and Sherlock hadn’t had the heart to delete the messages yet, even though they were all the same.

“I made a mistake,” he said, and it was the only time he ever had.

Mrs. Hudson’s small gasp was thoroughly understandable, considering. She then knelt down, prompting him to lift his head to her as she placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock,” she said, smiling at him like he was something precious, something beloved, and that hurt for some reason too. “It’s never too late to say you’re sorry. I’m sure John will understand.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it- You don’t understand, I- It was horrible,” he rambled, swallowing against the stiffness in his throat. “I ruined everything.”

Mrs. Hudson’s smile persevered. “Is this boy the one who keeps texting you? The messages you get before every show?”

He blinked at her, startled. He hadn’t realized he’d been so obvious about it. “I, er- Yes,” he stammered. “How did you-”

“Because you smile, Sherlock,” she answered, eyes dewy. “Every time. Down at that screen there.” She shifted her gaze down to the mobile beside him as she bobbed her head at it. Tilting her head, she looked at him, fond and knowing. “Anyone who can make that happen is worth trying a little harder for, don’t you think?” She gave his shoulder an added squeeze, and then stood, leaving Sherlock watching after her, thunderstruck.

Watching long enough for the door she left through to stop swinging, he jumped when his phone went off, the beep sharp and shrill in the empty, incandescent-lit studio. He swiped it off the floor, unlocking it and opening the message he already knew the content of.

_Good luck_

He grazed his thumb over the words, and then, lifting his head, caught sight of his face in the endless mirrors surrounding him. His own eyes widened in surprise back at him as he saw the slight curl of his mouth, just a faint brush of a smile over his lips. Chest swelling, he let it grow, watching his smile only serving to feed into the smile, and then he was laughing, collapsing back onto the wood floor and grinning up into the light bulbs. He held the phone aloft over his face, hesitating only a moment before beating down the fear and finally typing what he’d wanted to say for days.

_I meant it_

He hit send, had a brief moment of nearly throwing up, and then stood, swiping his workout bag from the floor and tossing the mobile into it.

“Sherlock?” Irene came around the corner, hair half done and one eye still unlined. “What are you doing in here? The show starts in an hour!”

Sherlock smiled, nodding as he strode toward her. “Coming,” he replied, and she huffed impatiently as she grabbed his arm and dragged him down the corridor toward the practice room now doubling as hair and makeup.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Sherlock Holmes,” she muttered, rattling her dark brown hair, curled into ringlets that smelled thickly of hairspray. “Ulcers. Dozens of them. I’ll be coughing up blood by the end of this week.”

“Promise?” Sherlock teased, and just barely managed not to wince as she dug in her nails in retaliation.

***

The Christmas Eve performance was packed, the standing ovation thunderous.

Sherlock took Irene’s hand, lifting it to the sky before they both bent in a low bow, uncurling back to the crowd to renewed fervor.

“Could’ve been a bit cleaner with the Romeo and Juliet,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth, lips barely moving.

“You could’ve been a bit lighter,” he murmured, and she twisted his wrist where their hands combined.

They broke apart, returning to the full line, and then all joined hands together, bowing one last time to the theater. They filtered off as Mrs. Hudson took the stage, doing her usual diatribe of gratitude and polite reminder of donations, and groups split off to their various dressing rooms, chattering excitedly.

Sherlock waited, loitering around backstage until he was sure the others would have been done getting changed and gone to greet their various friends and family, and then picked his way back to his section, curtains strung around to give everyone the faintest semblance of privacy. He sighed, slumping into the chair in front of the cheap plastic mirror propped up against his costume rack and grabbed at the wipes off the folding table at his side. He rubbed at the makeup until he was worried his eyelids might be flaking off, but it still lingered, the black smudged to grey rings. Not that it mattered; it would all be painted back on tomorrow. He flicked the now-colorful cloth into a bin in the corner, and then went about peeling off his costume, far too many layers all sticky with sweat. He did not envy the costume department. Not one bit.

Now in nothing but his leotard, feet bare beneath the black-clad legs, the black tank top straps stretching over his pale shoulders, he shoved the few things he needed into his red gym bag, hoisting it up onto his shoulder before turning to the mirror, poking and prodding at his hair to try and make it look a little less ridiculous before he inevitably got caught up in a photo as he tried to sneak out.

“Hey.”

He leapt back, gripping onto the side of the table, knocking an eyeliner pen to the floor with a weak clatter.

John’s eyes had followed the fall, but now lifted up Sherlock’s body, skipping a bit over his abdomen with a blink.

“Hey,” Sherlock said, the syllable a strangled thing between them. Silence pulsed around them, and Sherlock had to fill it with something. “You got an interview with Bart’s,” he blabbed.

John didn’t even look surprised, rolling his shoulders as he shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, hand lifting to the back of his neck. “Got the letter yesterday. Guess Her Majesty’s Armed Forces are out of luck,” he half-chuckled, but there was something pointed in his eyes.

“I guess so,” Sherlock replied, and they lapsed into quiet again.

“I got your message,” John blurted, gaze flickering between Sherlock and anywhere else.

Sherlock’s knees went numb. “Oh?”

John nodded, licking at his lips. “And I saw the show,” he said, a little brighter as he took a step further in. “It was brilliant. You-You were-” He held Sherlock’s gaze a moment longer, expression lost, and then cleared his throat, rolling back on his heels. “I looked for you after. Out in the lobby,” he continued, waving his arm out in a shaky and unnecessary gesture to the front of the theater. “Some woman told me you’d be back here. That lady who came out at the beginning?”

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock supposed, frowning. “How did you know to ask her?”

“I didn’t,” John replied, shaking his head. “She came up to me. Didn’t even ask if I was looking for you, just told me where you’d be. Said something about having seen that face more than once today.”

Sherlock smiled, biting at his lip as he dropped his head. “Yes, that does sound like her,” he said softly, wishing he had pockets like John in which to hide his hands. He settled for fiddling with the zipper of his bag.

“Sherlock, look-” John said with a heavy breath, stepping forward, posture determined, but Sherlock held up a hand.

“It’s okay, John,” he interjected, the name sending a sharp spasm through his heart again. “You don’t have to say anything. I know- I know you don’t… _feel_ that way. About me. I just- I wanted you to know.”

“No, but that’s the thing, I do!” John blurted, hands stretching out as he took another step. “I thought you didn’t feel that way about _me_!”

Sherlock blinked, his system crashing, too much information there unable to be computed by his internal hard drive. “What?” he brilliantly replied.

John sighed, exasperated, pacing to the side as he ran a hand up through his hair, mussing the wheat-blond strands. “It’s just, when it came up at your house, you said you weren’t interested, and I-I- Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, ya know?” he rhetorically asked, turning back to Sherlock with a wave of his hand. “But then you said it, and I- I don’t know, I was…disappointed, I guess? I don’t know, I just- Fuck.” He bowed his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he stopped pacing, his side turned toward Sherlock, muscles tensed.

“You were-” Sherlock stammered, lips moving of their own accord as he verbally pieced together the information. “You- But you never- You’re straight,” he said, finally coming up with a coherent thought.

John laughed, a sharp bark that echoed with anxiety. “Well, apparently not,” he chuckled, throwing his hands out in a grand shrug. “Not entirely, anyway.”

Sherlock’s mouth flapped like an air-drowned fish. “But you- Those girls. The-The redhead and the cheerleader.”

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock, I do remember my sexual history,” John muttered, but there was little bite to it. “I don’t know why you’re the one freaking out over this. My biggest concern is hardly how far I lean one way or the other.”

“Then what is it?” Sherlock asked, confused how John’s big gay crisis seemed to have jumped consciences to him.

“You!” John cried, flapping his hands at him. “You and your ridiculous hair and your cheekbones, and this _fucking_ thing, whatever that is!” He waved a hand up and down Sherlock’s body with a tortured expression. “I mean, bloody hell, Sherlock, you’ve been driving me _mad_! How can you be so _fucking_ clever and still so goddamn _stupid_!?”

Sherlock blinked at him, startled by the violence of the reaction, but John didn’t look angry, only desperate and lost, and, suddenly, Sherlock understood. “You like me,” he said, breathless with comprehension. “You-You like me. Like-Like that.”

John rolled his eyes. “What is this, some D-level rom-com? No, Sherlock, I don’t ‘like you like that’,” he muttered, bobbing his head in mocking to the words, and then his expression turned a bit more earnest. “I love you, you arrogant cock,” he said, almost patronizing, but he smiled. “And there’s only one way to mean that.”

It might not have actually been a D-level rom-com, but Sherlock certainly felt like it, his insides spiraling and swooping at the impossibility of what he couldn’t have just heard. “You-You love me,” he said, testing the words on his tongue.

John nodded, expression something Sherlock would normally mock, but he now hoped to see that sickeningly fond smile every day of his life. “Of course I do, you berk,” he sighed, shaking his head as he closed the distance between them with steady strides. “And I’m going to kiss you now,” he said, so matter-of-factly, Sherlock choked. “Before you make any more obvious observations.”

Sherlock started to laugh, high and strangled, and then John’s hand was on the back of his neck and the sound fluttered off into a soft gasp.

The pressure was faint at first, nothing but a shy press, and Sherlock was frozen under it, all his mental acuity focused on the nerve endings sparking in his lips, disabling every other function. And then, John shifted, just a little, just a slight tilt of his head and a tightening twist of Sherlock’s curls, but it brought reality back with a sharp slap to his consciousness, and he closed his eyes, mouth moving back under John’s.

John hummed a small sigh over Sherlock’s lips—relief, he would guess—and then unraveled his control a little further, sliding one hand further into Sherlock’s hair while the other arm wrapped around his waist, snapping them together with a sharp tug.

“John!” Sherlock panted, dizzy with the minty air washing between them. John must have eaten a mint just before coming in here, or perhaps chewed some gum? Either way, he had been expecting this, planning this, and the thought gave birth to a needy whimper as Sherlock scrabbled at the front of his jacket. Another wave of intoxication washed over him as John made a low sound in his throat, and then his head was twisted a bit further to the side, allowing John’s tongue to slip between his surprise-spread lips, and then he was completely lost in the taste of peppermint and English Breakfast Blend.

He had no idea what he was doing—people had a hard enough time _talking_ to him for extended periods of time, let alone kissing him—but John didn’t seem to mind, and all Sherlock had to do was keep up as his mouth was thoroughly explored, like John had long been studying the map and finally got to put the theories into practice. A particularly strong swipe across the roof of his mouth sent a spasm of shivers through his body, and Sherlock gasped, John allowing him to pull away only so he could fix his attention on Sherlock’s neck. “John!”

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John ground out, teeth scraping over a collarbone, and Sherlock’s eyes lost focus, lids blinking spasmodically.

“John- Wait, John-” he panted, the outside world coming back to him slowly through the haze. “I-I have to- I have to-”

“Yes?” John drawled, and his voice had no right to sound like that, low and dark and taunting.

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I have to-” He broke off into a cry as John tugged at his hips, grinding them together, and he would swear spots sparked to life behind his eyelids, his head falling forward as he grabbed at John’s shoulders for support. “John!”

“What?” the blond asked coyly, and Sherlock wanted to strangle him, wanted to kiss him, wanted to tread that thin line between them for as long as John would allow it. “What do you have to do, Sherlock?”

“Fuck!” Sherlock snarled, shaking with frustration, but it was the rumble of John’s shoulders as he chuckled into Sherlock’s clavicle that finally gave him the strength to pull back. “I have to go back out there!” he spluttered, separating their bodies before John could cut him off again. “They’ll be expecting me in the lobby, and I can’t-I can’t go out there-”

“Looking thoroughly fucked?” John finished, crossing his arms, eyebrow quirking over a smirk that Sherlock thought might be illegal in some countries in the EU.

He choked, but a small squeak slipped in there somewhere too, causing John to smile even wider.

“Alright,” John chuckled, and something shifted in his eyes, releasing a hold that Sherlock hadn’t realized he’d been held captive under, his lungs finally able to breathe and his muscles unclench. “You’re gonna wanna, um…” He waved a hand at Sherlock, a faint blush tinting his cheeks.

Sherlock tilted his head curiously before following the gesture, and then felt humiliation bloom through his body, spreading from his chest and flaring out in licks of flame as he saw the rather prominent erection jetting out from his leotard. He looked around the room for something to cover up, but he had come from home in his workout clothes already, and the only other options here were costumes. “Fuck,” he hissed, flustered.

“Not quite yet,” John muttered, smirk devilish and eyes dark, and Sherlock glared at him, hoping the additional blush would still be attributed to embarrassment.

“Shut up!” he snarled, and John laughed. “You’re not helping! What the hell am I supposed to do!?”

John sighed, shrugging out of his jacket, tugging his arms a bit when they caught on the sleeves. “Here,” he said, holding it out by the collar. “Do up the bottom few buttons and keep your hands in the pockets. No one will notice.”

Sherlock looked down at the jacket, then back at John, eyebrow rising. “Voice of experience?” he attempted to be coy, but it backfired when John grinned at him, sending a jolt of heat down through his abdomen.

“Maybe,” he said lightly, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s, and they burned through him in a way that made him wonder if he really needed to go back out there after all. Then, he blinked, and it was gone, the smile innocent once more. “We should go,” he said, walking past Sherlock toward the gap in the curtain, “before everyone’s gone.”

Sherlock turned to follow, gym bag banging along beside him as he attempted to wrangle his sleeves into the jacket. “John, wait,” he beckoned, and the blond stopped short, turning back with a crease between his brows. “Are you-” He stopped, suddenly shy, tugging at the cuffs of John’s jacket that sat a little too high on his hands. “Are you sure you want me wearing this?”

John turned properly toward him, head tilting. “Yes,” he said, eyebrow lifting. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, it- it has your name on it,” Sherlock expounded, lifting an arm to tap his own shoulder in a nervous gesture to the white lettering on the back.

John looked puzzled a moment longer, and then smiled, his whole face lighting up. “I know,” he said, moving back to stand in front of Sherlock, fastening the bottom three buttons for him while Sherlock tried not to get too distracted by the smell of his hair. He pressed a palm to Sherlock’s chest, just over his heart, a tender gesture that was somewhat at odds with the glint in his eyes when he looked up. “That’s the best part,” he said, his smirk blurring as his fingers twisted in the black leotard, wrenching Sherlock back to his mouth.

When they broke apart not enough seconds later, Sherlock just blinked, only dimly aware of John smoothing out the planes of his clothing.

“Come on,” he said, hand tracing down his sleeve over Sherlock’s arm before tangling with pale fingers. “Your public awaits!” He chuckled at himself, tugging at Sherlock’s hand until the detective stuttered forward, his feet taking a moment to remember their job.

They weaved through the backstage corridors, John thankfully remembering the way, and all Sherlock could do was stare dumbly at the back of his head, a loose smile playing on his lips.

He was completely lost in this, relationships as foreign to him as politics or Cluedo, but with John Watson leading the way, grip warm and firm over his hand, he knew he’d be content to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a link on my profile, but people still keep asking me if I have a tumblr, so I'm gonna start putting it at the bottom.  
> http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/


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